


9.14 Coda

by kirargent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Drinking, M/M, Post-Episode: s09e14, Post-Episode: s09e14 Captives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1252159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I think..." he says slowly. "I think..." He goes to take a drink, but the bottle is somehow empty. It's heavy, so he sets it down, swipes a hand over his eyes. "I don't know, man. I got no friggin' idea."</p><p>He looks up to see Cas nodding, as if he expected that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	9.14 Coda

**Author's Note:**

> idk?? I didn't mean to write this

He needs music.

He needs music to fill his head with something that's not his own thoughts. He needs music as something to focus on - something to _hang onto_ - instead of indulging the clinging thoughts about Sam, or Kevin, or Linda Tran, who was held captive and tortured for a year because Dean didn't believe she was alive. He needs music as an unobtrusive reminder that there are things in this world not of malicious intent, things that were created for the sake of creation, beauty for the sake of beauty. He needs music to fill the space around him, as if maybe some of it will seep into him, _fix him_ where he's so damn empty inside.

He needs music, until music isn't enough.

Then he stands, and places his headphones gently on the table beside his bed. He walks with soft footsteps to the door, and turns the knob all the way before he pulls it open - careful, quiet. He slips through the ever-lit hallways on light feet, winding his way to the kitchen; and there, on a high shelf, is the whiskey.

Awesome.

He needs a drink.

~

It's a while before he has company. He's not sure how long - maybe an hour; then again, maybe six - but he's not the only one who needs distraction, apparently. And despite what some sad, dejected part of Dean might hope, it's not Sam. Instead it's a world-weary angel, dragging himself into the kitchen with heavy eyes and a body laden with fatigue. Which, really, doesn't make much sense, Dean doesn't think. If angels don't sleep, and their bodies are not truly their own... but this body _is_ Cas's now, isn't it? He's still an angel, though, so he can't be tired, because without sleep, what recovery is there? But then, maybe he's stumbled over the magic words already: world-weary. That's a different sort of tired, maybe. Dean feels world-weary, too. He feels it in the core of his bones, in the heavy pit of his stomach. He wants to sleep - which begs the question, again: if not by sleeping, how could an angel be refreshed?

Dean's heartbeat pounds in his head; loud, painful. Thinking is not a good plan, tonight.

He looks up at Cas dully. "Y'still have a key?"

Cas squints at him, but Dean's not sure if that's a response, or if he's been making that face for so long that it's finally gotten stuck. Then, after a moment, his eyes lighten, just a little. "Evidently," he says.

Dean nods, gaze landing somewhere halfway across the room. He stares at nothing. He takes another drink, straight from the bottle, screw you, Sam.

He doesn't know how much time passes before Cas sits down, within sight but not reach.

"I feel..." Cas starts.

Dean stares at nothing.

"I feel as I did when I was human, and I needed sleep."

Dean nods slowly. The weight of his head feels strange, bobbing on his neck.

"I wouldn't know how," Cas says.

Dean stares at nothing. He might be frowning, he's not sure, and every part of him is too heavy to check.

"To sleep, that is," Cas clarifies. "Not anymore."

Dean nods again. Takes another drink.

There's silence, then, save for the monotonous buzzing of the lights.

Dean's shoulders ache. His ass, too, on the hard floor. And his legs, and his chest - every part of him aches, inside and out.

"I..." Cas begins, and then falls silent.

Dean stares at nothing.

"An angel died, today, because I did not act."

Dean brings the bottle to his lips, tilts his head back to let liquid stream down his throat. He holds the bottle out to Cas.

Cas does not take it. "I was  _selfish_ ," he says.

Dean withdraws the whiskey, holds the bottle close to his chest.

"I didn't want to fight anymore," Cas says. It's soft, on an exhale, but  _pained_ \- there is so much pain in his voice, Dean actually looks over at him. He's sitting with his legs apart, knees bent as a resting place for his elbows. He stares down at his hands like he's perplexed by them, like he's not sure they're a part of him, or like he's not sure he  _wants_ them to be.

Dean says nothing. He stares at Cas, if only because moving his head again would take too much energy.

"I didn't want to fight anymore," Cas says again, louder this time, voice distressed and broken. "I didn't want to fight, but they still did, and I chose..." Cas swallows. "I chose not to fight, and I let him die."

Dean's tired, yeah, but he's listening to his friend - and yes, okay, it's mostly going over his head, but enough of it registers for it to be clear that it's not Cas's fault. Dean says as much. Slurs as much.

He thinks Cas understands him, because he shakes his head. "It  _was_ my fault," he says viciously; he's slicing himself up with his own words, his own thoughts. 

Dean can relate. He holds out the whiskey again. Cas makes a small, unhappy noise, and Dean takes it back.

"Dean, I don't want to fight," he says miserably.

"I know, buddy."

"Do I have to?" he asks, sounding for all the world like a petulant child. He shakes his head. "If I don't want more lives to be taken," he ammends, "do I have to fight?"

Dean doesn't have an answer, so he remains quiet.  _I fight_ , he thinks.  _Every goddamn day, and where does it get me?_

 _Alone_  is where it gets him. Alone on the kitchen floor, trying not to think about Sam, or Kevin, or Linda Tran, or even about the angel sitting with him, because he's broken, too, broken and millions of miles away; fighting hasn't saved any of them.

"I think..." Dean says slowly. "I think..." He goes to take a drink, but the bottle is somehow empty. It's heavy, so he sets it down, swipes a hand over his eyes. "I don't know, man. I got no friggin' idea."

He looks up to see Cas nodding, as if he expected that.

There's silence again, for a moment. Dean wonders if he'll remember tomorrow that he should see about making those damn lights quieter.

Then Cas speaks, and he's still quiet, but it's... his voice is more solemn now, resigned instead of broken. "I'm not sure anyone has an idea."


End file.
